


for a minute there, i lost myself

by ciders



Series: losing will, and other fatalities [2]
Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, POV Mike Wheeler, a retelling if you will, a sequel but not really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 23:30:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19413709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ciders/pseuds/ciders
Summary: On November 7th, 1985, Mike Wheeler awoke with a hop in his step and a weightless heart. He had no idea what happened to his best friend the night before. He had no idea that Will Byers' mind had been wiped clean of any trace of him.Bitter and broken over the loss of their childhood together, now all Mike wants to do is get Will to remember him on his own. That's the hard part.





	for a minute there, i lost myself

**Author's Note:**

> well well well! okay. so.
> 
> i've been talking about this on twitter but not on here, so here it is! i've been working on a bit of a retelling of my fanfic, 'where is my mind', for a little while now. i've recently finished the first chapter and the second is in the works, so here it is. it's not a sequel, but rather a retelling with some new events from mike's side of the story, plus some extras. hope you enjoy :^)
> 
> i'll update this as often as i can, because tlv is still being worked on! and also, hope everyone is feeling the hype for next week when st3 comes out. okay! here goes!

Mike Wheeler sits at his table on the morning of November 7th, 1985, and he has not an inkling of a clue about what is going on just halfway across town.

_What a mess,_ Mike Wheeler thinks to himself. He stares down at the mahogany table before him, his dark eyes hooded and fixed on the runny duo of eggs seated on to the side of his plate. He wonders, silently, if Nancy has just never learned how to cook eggs properly. He’d learned quick enough in his home economics class in eighth grade, and considering Nancy had taken that class before him, one would think she’d have it down pact by now. He prods at the slippery things another moment before he drops his fork with a tink against his plate, startling his baby sister who lifts her wobbly little head and gives her brother a stunned look.

“Nance,” Mike grumbles, slumping back against his seat. “You know how to cook this stuff, right?” 

He can hear his sister shuffling around in the kitchen, a pan sizzling on the stove. He’s not entirely sure why she decided today would be the say do make breakfast for everyone, or why she yanked him out of bed to be her guinea pig half an hour before he’d usually wake up on the weekend. It’s barely even grown light outside yet; the winter darkness has already set in and the sun has barely begun to climb towards the horizon. He’d be less picky on a regular day, perhaps he might even offer a _tip_ or two. But he’s all too busy digging around inside his head this morning, even half asleep like this. From the kitchen, Nancy lets out a scoffing noise that perhaps she assumes Mike won’t hear.

“I know how to cook eggs, Mike,” she calls back softly, the sound of a spatula scoring the edge of his mother’s good cookware sending a shiver up his spine. “They’re fine. They’re sunny-side-up. Just eat.”

Mike stares down into his plate. The eggs stare back, glistening like wet rubber.

“They look raw,” he murmurs under his breath. Shoving a stray curl out of his eyes, Mike’s gaze darts across towards Holly, sitting peacefully in her high-chair as she crunches mercilessly on coloured Froot Loops. He leans across the table, spearing a limp tendril of egg on the end of his fork and wiggling it in her direction. When the wee girl only stares and babbles out a weak noise of displeasure, Mike snickers and drops his fork back into his plate, triumphant. 

“Even _Holly_ doesn’t want them,” he calls out to Nancy, staring down into the wood finish. From behind and above, Mike can hear movement stretching down the upstairs hallway in the fashion of footsteps creaking against the floorboards. He can hear his mother, Karen’s squeaking yawn as she climbs down the carpeted steps, and the hesitation in her footing as she finally reaches the bottom floor. Sitting slouched against the table in his sweater and shorts, Mike cranes his head to the side, giving his mother a shallow smile as he observes her standing at the bottom of the stairs, her eyes scouring the table with intrigue.

“Nancy,” Mike explains, catching his mother’s eye. She doles out a nervous little smile as she moves once again, drawing her robin’s egg blue housecoat around her tighter as she passed behind Mike’s seat. Her hand lands upon his head tenderly, muddying up his hair as he swats her away with an irate hum. 

“Nancy? Making breakfast?”

“Yep,” Mike grumbles, blindly sorting out his curls as he gives Holly a ‘can you believe this?’ sort of glance. Karen peers towards the kitchen, then back towards her son.

“How is it?”

He must have screwed up his nose a bit, because Karen exhales a meek sense of a laugh and nods, turning and drifting towards her youngest to scoop a few dry pieces of cereal off the table and place them back into the bowl. 

Truth be told, the eggs aren’t so bad. Mike doesn’t even care about the yellow, viscous liquid pouring from them when he cuts them apart. He doesn’t care about eggs, or cookware, or the mess that his sister is making. He might be able to ignore these things on a regular basis, but today he needs the distraction. Anything to pick apart that keeps him from dwelling too much on something that he still hasn’t wrapped his head around. That something, of course, being his best friend Will Byers.

He doesn’t know if he can call Will his best friend now; it seems like there is so much more than that going on. He couldn’t ever confide in his mother or his _sister_ about this sort of thing, and certainly not his _father._ He’s well aware that he needs to keep all of this in his head, or between him and Will, but that just doesn’t seem feasible. He’s practically splitting at the seams as he sits here on his first _day_ with this knowledge stewing inside his head, picking aimlessly at his food and staring down into the wood grain like it might give him some sort of guidance about what to do. 

For the longest time, this feeling has been a solitary one. He’s had to deal with his own inner turmoil about his emotions and how _annoying_ they are for a very long time, and it’d only been in the face of a crisis when he realized that he wasn’t alone. That this feeling-- the one that’s been tormenting him-- hasn’t been a lonely venture. That Will Byers, of course, felt the exact same way. That what people had been saying-- what _Troy_ had been saying, as cruel as it had come out-- was true.

That Will likes him.

That Will _likes_ him; the same way Lucas liked Tricia Hartwell in sixth grade, or the same way Dustin had crushed on a senior girl on the volleyball team only last term.

It had come out the night before, after Mike had confronted him about a ‘nasty’ little statement that Troy Harrington had spat at them during a confrontation in the boy’s locker room. The words felt like bullets splitting through his chest, but only in the fear that they’d been so outrageous that the idea of Will having any sort of a crush on a boy, let alone _Mike,_ was far beyond realistic. Mike had always been told that boys aren’t supposed to like each other like that, and yet something tells him that must not be the case, because he’s liked Will for a long enough time that it feels like he can’t do anything _else._ That he can’t _like_ anyone else, because this is the only thing that _does_ feel like it’s supposed to happen. Knowing that Will feels the same way, well.

That can’t be wrong. It just can’t be.

He still stews in it. Maybe not negatively, as expected, but in a delighted little haze. He’d seen Dustin act the same way when he’d sent off a valentine to some tenth grader last year and he’d gotten to watch her open it and gush about it to her friends in Math class. That’s how Mike feels right now; doe-eyed and smitten about it. The person that he likes, likes him _back._ Why wouldn’t he be excited about it? Especially when that person is _Will Byers_. Will Byers with his pretty eyes and his beautiful drawings and his kind heart. Will Byers with his jingling laugh and his sharp tongue and his patience and virtue. Mike feels practically as light as air, though it likely isn’t showing on his face. Harassing Nancy’s breakfast skills only seems to serve as a basic way for him to keep occupied so he doesn’t go blurting it out at the dinner table for his entire family to hear.

It’s no surprise, of course, that when the phone begins to ring moments later, Mike springs up from his seat like a bouncy ball and nearly knocks his fork right off his plate as he skitters into the kitchen to answer it first. The kitchen, doused in golden light from the overhead bulb, smells even more like burnt toast and pancake dough. Mike can hear his mother call out an aimless request for him to sit down and finish his food, but he’s got no desire to do that. He doesn’t even bother to wonder who might be calling so early on a Saturday morning. Maybe picking up the phone to a telemarketer would give him a little more stimulation, and so he rounds the corner, catching a disgruntled look from Nancy as she brushes a strand of frizzy hair from her eyes. 

Glancing down at the receiver, Mike’s stomach flip-flops inside his chest at the sight of the caller ID. _Speak of the devil_ , he thinks. Right there in blocky digital letters: _J BYRS._

Mike’s fingers twitch. He reaches upwards, tantalizingly close, but he hesitates as his heart thumps heavy inside his ears. He feels a bit cheesy, acting this way, but there’s also the excitement of nobody else knowing why he’s so eager. Will and Mike has held plenty of secrets over the years, mostly silly and childish, but _this-- this_ was something completely different. When his fingers finally wrap around the receiver moments later, he raises the speaker to his ear, pulse slamming along to an inaudible beat.

“ _Will?”_ Mike asks softly, his voice light and airy.

A woman clears her throat. There is a moment of peculiar silence, and in this quiet, Mike comes to understand that it is not Will on the other end of the phone. His cheeks burning hot, Mike shuts his eyes, embarrassed. 

“ _Hey_ … Mike,” Joyce Byers speaks calmly on the other end of the line. Her voice, as peaceful and low as it already is, seems a bit sucked dry. Though worry pangs his chest, Mike reaches up to coil the phone cord around his finger, tucking that worry away.

“Ah, morning, Mrs. Byers,” Mike responds, toning it down as he straightens up, like the woman was there in his kitchen next to him. Before he can stop himself, Mike’s eyes roll to the side as he peers out the window and he asks, timidly: “Is Will there?”

Another silence. Mike wonders if maybe there is a delay on the phone, or even if house phones _work_ like that. After a still moment, poised to ask if Joyce has lost connection, she clears her throat.

“Ah,” she speaks, her voice low and muffled for a moment before she sniffles, clearer and closer. “Not right now, honey. He’s…”

A pause. Mike doesn’t like the sound of this one. A slimy feeling creeps up his back.

“Is your mom awake?” Joyce asks, her tone worn. Mike squirms slightly, nodding as though Joyce can see him standing there in his pajamas. 

“Yeah, I’ll get her,” he mumbles, that particular twang of discomfort budding inside his stomach like a weed. He steps back, dragging the phone’s long chord with him as he lifts a hand to catch his mother’s attention. Karen, still playing maid as she cleans up after her babbling toddler, lifts her head and dumps a handful of dry cereal back into Holly’s bowl with a flourish. Then, scuttling over to the phone, she shoots Mike a curious glance, to which he mouths the words ‘ _Mrs. Byers’_ as he releases the phone to her.

He wishes he could be reluctant, but he thinks being polite is more important, and being nosy isn’t a branch off of that either. Trickling back into the dining room, Mike steps back towards his seat, nudging the base of the chair back underneath the lip of the table with his socked foot and shoving that confusing little nervous feeling back down out of sight.

He debates, as he cleans up after himself (something he wouldn’t usually do if he weren’t trying to keep busy), about inviting Will over later to watch a movie or go for a bike ride. He daydreams about Will in general, and the smile that tugs as his lips is sappy and genuine. He’s never met a better person than Will Byers, and that is the god-honest truth. He loves Lucas Sinclair and Dustin Henderson quite dearly, and he’d consider them his closest friends. But Will, well. 

Mike has always known Will was different to him. Will was his first friend; Will has always been his _best_ friend. Ranked subconsciously above the other by a bit, though he’d never tell the group of them that. He knows, deep down, and that’s enough for him. He knows Will is different. He knows, regardless of where their little confession goes, whatever this brings, that he won’t lose Will. He can’t picture any aspect of his life without the boy. It’s been too long. 

It’s only been a minute or two of this, but Mike’s smile swells, the apples of his cheeks rising as he tucks his head away from the kitchen entry just so he can allow himself to cool down before scooping up his plate and utensils, twisting back towards the kitchen. 

Mike pauses. 

Karen stands in the kitchen doorway, framed by the arch as she holds the phone to her chest. Her face, pallid in a way that almost seems to highlight her very few wrinkles, is stunned and blank as she gazes out towards her son, her bright blue eyes locked on his face. Mike, feeling like a bug under a magnifying glass, wonders initially if he’s done something wrong. The smile slips from his face fluidly, doused in a cold shiver as he draws his plate closer to his stomach. 

He doesn’t know what’s wrong, but he knows that _something_ is. He can tell in the way that his mother stares at him, her eyes swimming with apology. His throat, suddenly dry as a mitfull of sand, feels rough and unused. Still, Mike manages to clear it, his eyes darting to the side and back.

“ _What?”_ he asks, his voice a squeak.

At first, he worries that Will has told them what went on. He worries that he’s now in trouble for something that neither of them can’t control. His mind swims with possible endeavours about how to work around this, how to lie and protect the both of them. He wonders if Will was coerced to admit what had happened, or if he’d given it up out of inner guilt without a push. He convinces himself in a span of ten seconds, during which his mother says nothing but allows her lips to open and close like a fish out of water, that he’s in trouble for having a crush on his best friend. For having a crush on a boy.

_“Mom?”_ Nancy asks softly from the kitchen. Bacon sizzles in the pan, and to Mike, it takes on a suddenly sour tone.

“ _Mom,”_ he begins, his lips suddenly burning and dry. His heart stutters in his chest. “Listen, I…”

Karen raises a hand. It’s a delicate motion, just enough to cut Mike off at the root. She doesn’t look angry, no. Mike notices that now. She doesn’t look angry, but rather, she looks like she’s about to cry.

_“What?”_

Karen shakes her head. Not _what,_ Mike understands, his stomach dropping. A wash of cold spills over him like someone has just dunked him into an ice bath. It’s not what. 

It’s _who._

Standing in the archway, Karen shakes her head once more, limp and pained.

“Michael,” she begins tenderly, her voice nothing more than an exhale, his full name reserved for times when things were serious. “Sweetheart, I’m sorry. Your friend Will’s been in an accident.”

  
  


The Hawkins General Hospital, by average, is a twenty minute drive from the Wheeler’s cul-de-sac. For the entirety of those twenty-or-so minutes, Mike Wheeler’s eyes remain fixed to the polyester backing of the car seat before him.

He doesn’t take in a single thing outside of the vehicle, not even the trees bleeding by in misshapen streaks. He doesn’t pay attention to the radio, though he at least registers the fact that his mother shuts it off halfway through the travel. He’s not even sure he’s breathing or blinking or functioning. The only way he can be sure that he is even _alive_ at this point is by account of his heartbeat pounding relentlessly against the inside of his eardrums. 

Mike doesn’t register walking into the infirmary. He can smell the scent of topical ointments and sickness and he can hear the beeps of machines attached to necks and wrists and IVs, but he hardly remembers crossing through the stark-white hallway, fleshed out to make room for stretchers being swung through. His mind feels as though it has been filled with black ink, nothingness bleeding down into his throat and stinging his senses. He hasn’t cried yet, because crying would take emotion and effort and Mike can’t bring forth either of those to the table right now. 

It’s like his body had gone into complete and utter lockdown. Like his brain has decided, without his permission, that it was going to turn off everything and leave him as a stumbling, stunned robot for his own safety. In the long run, this is good for him. It would be a shame if he’d cried all the way there, and it would be a shame if he’d cried for the next three days or more, too. He needs to be strong now. If shutting down is how he stays strong, then he’ll do that.

Because Will is the one that got hurt. He doesn’t know how, but he’s hurt. He’s _really_ hurt, and Mike needs to _protect_ him. _Wants_ to protect him.

_But,_ Mike thinks as he trails through the hall behind his mother who has his shoulder in her grasp, _didn’t I screw that up already?_

As the three of them, Nancy in tow with her arms wrapped around herself, come up to the corner and round it briskly, Joyce Byers pale and exhausted face comes into view. The moment Mike sees her, it feels as though somebody has punched the green button inside of his skull and he nearly trips over his once-again-functioning feet. He tears free of his mother’s grip easily, as though she hadn’t expected him to bolt so suddenly. Joyce, completely drowning inside a maroon-red jacket much too big for her, takes a good moment to notice Mike Wheeler scurrying towards her like she’s magnetized. After an internalized push, Joyce straightens against the wall, leveling herself before reaching out and catching Mike’s arms in her weakened grip.

“ _Where is he?”_ Mike is blurting, over and over as though he’ll only stop once granted an answer. He doesn’t notice now that Joyce is barely able to cling to him, but he’ll think about it much later, along with a plethora of things he’s about to learn. “ _Where is he?”_

His eyes, frantic and dark, scour the numbered plaques on the walls like one of them will respond. The doors are shut, the curtains are drawn, and he hears no sign of his best friend. His gaze, dead and desperate, rises to the door Joyce had been parked next to.

“ _Is he in there?”_ Mike asks. Joyce’s eyes, cold and sorrowful, skirt from Mike to his mother. “ _Is he? Can I see him? What happened?”_

“ _Michael,”_ Karen whispers softly, her fingers grazing Mike’s shoulder. He doesn’t notice; he only looks to Joyce, holding onto her forearms in return like the two are balancing each other on broken ground. “ _Just take is easy, okay? Joyce, I’m so sorry… you must be...”_

_“It’s alright,”_ Joyce speaks. She speaks, and Mike stiffens like a log. She doesn’t sound like herself; stoney and raw, like she’s been doing nothing but crying for the past twelve hours. This bothers Mike enough; he loves Joyce, _very much,_ and it hurts him to see her so upset. It only hurts more once he connects the dots and realizes, with heightening panic, that this must be _very_ reflective of how _Will_ is doing. “ _He has questions, that’s alright, that’s okay. I’m glad you’re here now.”_

_“He’s in there?”_ Mike asks, his voice a shiver. When Joyce nods, he can feel his face twisting with worry, pursing his lips to keep them from shaking.

“ _He’s resting,”_ Joyce whispers, thumbs rubbing into Mike’s arms. “ _He’s been… unresponsive, really, since he… got here.”_ Joyce’s gaze, lazy and slow from exhaust, travels to Karen. “ _They kept poked and messing with him, did scans all night. I had to twist arms just to get some time alone with him.”_

_“What happened?”_ Mike wheezes. Joyce glances back at him, but it’s delayed. He doesn’t register what that means. He doesn’t clue in quite yet.

She seems to swallow back what she wants to say for a moment, like the words would rather remain trapped in her throat. Nancy and Karen, silent behind Mike, seem to fade out of his radar. He can only pay attention to the shorter, older women before him as she dips her head.

“ _He was biking home last night,”_ Joyce begins, her voice trouble and dim. “ _From yours. Something… happened, he got... distracted, or confused or…_ something, _I don’t know, but… he took a spill. A… really bad spill. He…”_

Joyce seems to lose her voice, or rather, her voice _leaves_ her for a moment. Her hands dropping numbly from Mike’s arms back to her sides, Joyce jolts slightly as the first sniffle and painfully-quiet sob rips through her. The weight of this entire situation, and the extra pounds from dealing with it sleeplessly for the past half a day, have finally crashed down on top of her head.

_“He hurt himself,”_ she whimpers, forgetting Mike, speaking only to the air and God now. “ _Fell off his bike into the ditch… He hit his head really,_ really _badly. I… I should’ve come to get him, I should’ve…. It was so dark out, and it was foggy, I don’t know why I just… I should’ve…”_

Passing by Mike’s side, though he doesn’t notice her, Karen rounds her son and takes Joyce Byers into her arms. The two women cradle each other, but Mike doesn’t seem to take much notice to it. His hands, too, have long since slipped away from Joyce, severing the tie between them as he stares oddly as the face of the door next to her. The puzzle pieces are fitting together now, but they feel tight and uneven and painful to look at. Painful; that might be the wrong word.

_Excruciating. Guilty. Furious._ Now those work.

Mike stares at the door. The pieces, stuck tight, form a horrendous picture inside Mike’s brain. It’s as though, for a moment, he is right there on the skid of road where Will had taken this fall. For a moment, it’s as though he can smell the scent of rain and disturbed gravel and blood. He can feel his head throbbing and he can feel a concussion that doesn’t belong to him splitting through his skull. He can feel sprained fingers and dirt on his clothes and skin and he can feel the fading of consciousness, though he, himself, is entirely fine. He can feel Will’s pain, radiating against him like a wave of nausea. Will had fallen off his bike on his way home from Mike’s. When Mike had asked him if he wanted a drive home, he said no. He’d offered to bike with him, albeit selfishly, as he’d only wanted to spend a sliver of time more with Will. Will had said no. He’d said he’d be fine.

Mike wishes he could demand an explanation for that lie. But it’s hardly a lie if Will didn’t _know._

He stands there, soaking in it, for what feels like hours but might only be half a minute. Without consultation, without consideration because _fuck_ this, Mike takes a wobbly step forward. He shakes, practically vibrating, as Joyce’s sniffles echo behind him and he hears, to an _extent,_ his name being spoken. He ignores it, taking another step and wrapping his fingers around the door handle. He holds it, _God,_ he holds it for too long. Then, stepping forth and twisting with a limp wrist, Mike Wheeler pushes open the door and steps into the private room.

It’s quiet. Only the beeping of a heart monitor, steady and calm to Mike’s minute sense of relief, narrate his motions. He lets the door shut timidly behind him, having not heard or felt anyone trying to slip in behind him. He is grateful for this, _overwhelmingly so,_ because there is no separation curtain in use at the moment. The fabric is pulled back, framing the bed like some sort of macabre painting. And in a sad, sorrowful way, it does look like that.

Mike stands, a few metres from the hospital bed, and stares at Will.

The boy is, as Joyce said, still as a stone.

His face, smooth and just as recognizable as ever, is dotted with petite bruises, crowned at the temple by a swollen purple stain like rich watercolour. Tiny scrapes ( _from the dirt and rocks,_ Mike assumes) etch Will’s hands and arms, which are draped comfortable over his stomach. He lays slightly propped up, his head lolled towards the window. The mid-morning glow outside makes him seem almost doll-like. The breathing, as subtle as it is stuttery, is the only thing keeping Mike anchored down. Will looks like Will, of course, but it’s _wrong._ It’s cruel, the way he looks now. 

Every ounce of air inside his chest has compressed to almost nothing. When Mike takes a breath, shuddery and broken, he can feel a trail of cool wetness slip down past his chin and roll towards the collar of his shirt.

“Will,” he speaks into the room. 

The silence remains unforgiving. 

“Will,” Mike speaks again. 

His voice smolders with fury, pinpointed at himself. Fury and terror and pain. He steps forward, once, then three times in succession. He steps to Will’s side, but it burns to badly to look at him that he has to squeeze his eyes shut. The tears flow, relentless.

And then, as dams do when water finds a crevice large enough to push through…

Everything breaks.

_“I’m sorry,”_ Mike is whispering, trembling as though an invisible someone is trying to shake him like a ragdoll. “ _I’m sorry, Will, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Please be alright. Please, be.... You_ have _to be. I’m not giving you a choice, okay? You have to be. You’ve got to be. You’ve got to be alright because you_ need _to be. Okay? So be alright. Please. Will…”_

There is no response; there will not be one for days, when Will finally wakes up.

By the time he does get a response, Mike is _sore._ It is no complaint; it’s what he gets for sleeping in a waiting chair for two days straight. It is bliss to see Will’s honey green eyes open and blinking again, and the moment he’s told that Will has woken up, Mike practically breaks his neck trying to get from the cafeteria to the hospital room within a matter of moments. He rushes there right away, panting and warm to the touch, ready to see Will.

And my, the joy that he feels when he steps into that room and he sees Will, sitting up, staring with wide, curious eyes across the bed at him. He has his best friend back. That’s what he thinks when he looks at Will. _I have him back. He’s alright. He’s okay._

“What about this fella here?” Will’s doctor is asking, gesturing to Mike. At first, he doesn’t get it. Not fully. His hands stuffed into his pockets, his breath snagging in his throat, a damp, cold chill crawls down his spine. 

“Do you know who that is?”

And it’s amazing.

Really.

How that joy bubbles and fades into emptiness in a matter of seconds.

And all it takes are the words: “ _No, I don’t_.”

Mike fades; bleeds out of existence, almost. He hears those words, and then nothing else following. Will doesn’t even say anything else, though if he did, Mike wouldn’t be there to hear it. He steps back first, catching the attention of his mother, parked at his side. When she reaches for him, her eyes swollen with surprise, Mike dodges that touch and stumbles over himself, turning away and groping for the door handle.

It’s a blur, the motions. Scampering through the hallway, searching for something, _anything_ to help. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for; all he knows is that he feels like he’s going to pass out, his vision dragging with streaks of light and dark, blinking back tears that catch the light and blind him. He is reeling and broken apart, fraying with every step as he cuts a corner towards the waiting area and spots Nancy’s thin face, peering across the rows of sickly-purple chairs at him like a frightened mouse.

She meets him halfway, though he doesn’t even register slumping against her. He expects her to push him off, to yell at him, _something._ He’s never come for comfort from her before, but all she does is hold him, and he struggles against her as though he is trying to get out of his own body. He is speaking, but it’s incoherent to him as it is to her, nothing but a series of shuddering sobs, muffled against her blouse. He lets Nancy hold him, because he can’t hold himself up even an ounce. His brain pulses and throbs, his eyes reddened and damp and swollen with tears. _No, I don’t._

He doesn’t know what kind of punishment this is, nor for _what,_ but it’s a sick one. It’s cruel. Mike decides this, standing here in the lobby, ignoring stares and worried glances because it’s _cruel._ It’s cruel and whatever he has done, he is endlessly sorry for it.

He doesn’t know what he did to warrant Will forgetting him. But that’s exactly what’s happened.

Exactly what he thought was impossible. 

_He’s lost him._

_He’s lost the most important person he has._

  
  
  
  
  



End file.
